The Underdog
by Irbis
Summary: Of Dogs and men: the winding road out of boyhood and into a grownup's world of hate. Or of how Victor Creed and his hate for Wolverine were born. Ch.5 and 6 are up. Sorry for the long posting interruption.
1. 1904, July

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**1. 1904, July**

The night wind was blowing almost gently through the corn field, even despite the often cold gusts that broke the corn heads' rhythmic swing to force them down on a tight bend. But it was a nice summer night, nonetheless, especially after the searing hot day. The countless stars lit up a moonless sky that was almost a new world's landscape. Yet it held no true interest for the boy lying amidst the partial protection of the corn stalks.

Brown eyes gazing up, the dark haired boy wasn't particularly sleepy, nor was he feeling particularly prone to thinking. Therefore, he simply gazed lazily to the starscape that happened to be above him while watching, for lack of better enjoyment, the random memories his mind was currently juggling with.

The recorded images of the last days had mingled themselves in one chaotic pleasant flow. The boy found himself smiling dreamily at the warmness of those recent memories and searched around for a thin herb stalk on which to chew on, thus preventing more smiles from opening themselves. He knew it was not good to let himself flow with that warmness. There would be a beating lurking behind it. It was a lesson he had learnt a long time ago. He wasn't sure when it had been, but his mind was quick to provide him with images that attested to their antiquity. Hidden away in a distant memory, there was a big, tall woman whose face was a blank. The only distinctive feature his mind had not blurred was the woman's blonde hair.

Ah!, and there it was, the warmness once again. It enveloped him as he remembered the intonation of her words – gentle, soothing, sometimes even cheerful – although he couldn't grasp the sound of her voice anymore. He particularly remembered the times when she sat down and held him tight, speaking in whispers. She'd repeat his name over and over like a strange prayer, her little boy's name, and promise he would grow up strong and big, and nothing or no one would ever be able to hurt him.

It was warm and safe, that memory. Even in its danger. Because it would always undo itself in the arrival of Pa. And the beating lurking behind the ancient warmness would come falling on the woman, as he remembered hiding behind… something. It didn't really matter what it was, since it always failed to protect him from the blows that soon shifted from the weeping woman onto himself.

Pa didn't like his name. The boy knew that was the reason he never said it; why he always just called him boy. It was also the reason why he beat the woman every time she pronounced his name, and then kicked him out of his hiding place and beat him. He remembered there had been a time when the woman had tried to stand up against Pa. There had been a lot of screaming that one time, and Pa had been as enraged as he had never been before. The boy still recalled the cold of the night as he had run away from the small house, afraid of how big a beating he might catch on the account of the woman. When he had returned to the house, the next day, he had found that the woman had gone away.

Pa had never again beaten him on account of his name. Later, the boy had found out she had been taken to the cemetery, down in the village, and he quickly decided it had been good she had died. Because he might miss the safety of her strong arms, but they were strong only when Pa was away; and when he arrived, their strength melted away into helpless tears. And a lot of pain.

The boy closed his eyes. The memory of the pain of those past beatings, over his hateful name, became mixed with the pain of a more recent beating. Once more he was pleased it was summer. He could spend the entire night away and thus avoid meeting Pa in the morning, as he woke up. Pa always woke up early, and would be mad if he wasn't getting up already. Only, it was very hard to wake up before Pa. Very hard indeed. He wished it could be summer all year round.

He had only half wished for an eternal summer, when the sun came bouncing up in the sky. The boy, eyes still closed, tried to ignore it and will it away; but the sun was already too high and the corn stalks offered no protection. Finally, he gave up his slumber and got up, stretching lazily.

The day had already grown hot, despite being late summer, the days slowly shrinking. Scratching his head vigorously, the boy headed away from the shadowless field and wandered into the coolly shaded apple tree orchard. He ate a few apples to appease his growling stomach and threw stones at a couple dogs that came barking warnings at his intrusion. Sharp eyes and a steady hand soon chased the orchard keeper's dogs away and, feeling good with himself, he went straight for the big house. No sense in lingering behind to be caught by the dumb apple keeper.

It was a bit late in the morning, but he hoped to spot pretty Rose around the house so he got down to do his chore, tending to the garden, in the areas he knew offered a better chance of catching a glimpse of her. He whistled some mismatched melody as he plucked weeds out of the flower beds, always keeping an eye out for the house girl's red hair.

"Hey, Dog!"

He turned around sharply at the voice of the new stable boy, Harold Cobbett, who was only slightly older than himself. He knew him from the village, down the hill. Harold used to run in pack with all the other boys and he knew better than to cross their way, since they enjoyed beating every boy that wasn't a part of their group. It had been them who had twisted his true name around into Dog, a long, long time ago. They had probably even forgotten all about it, too.

But Harold was older, now, and seemed to really have forgotten the times when he had run with the pack. The dark haired boy still didn't like him, though. He acted all important like just because he was slightly older and worked with the horses. So, he ignored the other boy's call and went back to his chore, lips pursed together in a sudden bad mood.

"Hey, ain't ya heard me callin' ya? Dog!"

"Whaddya want?" He answered gruffly. He hated being called that, but since Pa had never once complained about it, and much less beaten him because of it, he never said anything against it.

"Miss Rose's been askin' fer ya." That got his attention, but he continued on plucking weeds as if his heart wasn't beating as fast as a fly beats its wings. "I think Master James wanna sees ya or somethin'."

He focused harder on his chore.

"Hey, ain't ya heard me?" Looking down at the weeds, he failed to notice the older boy looking around for any witnesses. He also failed to notice him pulling back his foot; so when the kick hit him on the back, the boy fell over with a suppressed yelp. "Master James's waitin' fer his pet dog: don't keep'im waitin'!"

He moved fast, his small fist closed in a ball, his precious pen knife sticking out threateningly; but young Harold knew the trick and had already bounced out of the bladed punch's way. Swiftly, he held the young boy's wrist and twisted it around, effectively stopping him from attempting another blow.

"Careful, ya stupid Dog!" He spit his warning threateningly. "Ya wouldn't want Old Howlett ta know ya's a lil' murderin' thief, like yer Pa, would ya? Ya oughtta be thankin' us, village folks, fer not rattin' yer old man out, 'stead o' actin' all bratty."

With a last kick, Harold sent the boy face first into the flower bed. He never even bothered to get away quickly, but simply took two steps back and waited for the dirty face to come up, contorted with fury and hurt pride.

"Master James's waitin' fer ya." He said out loud and clear. "So hurry up an' get outta here. Dog. Go on, move!"

He stood tall, looking down on him. Still fuming, the young boy got up. He wanted to charge the mocking village boy, but he knew he didn't stand a chance. He almost did charge, in spite of it; yet he ended up turning his back on him and wandering away, his ears burning from a few last remarks.

The boy felt hot tears burning his eyes but swallowed them down. He wiped his right cheek with his tattered shirt, promising himself he would one day beat them all away. Harold and all the village boys, who thought themselves so high and mighty. He'd show them… He had sometimes thrown stones at the pack, but he had been careful to remain hidden. Nevertheless, what he really wanted to was to be as strong as his Pa and show them all, cowards, who the boss was. And one day… one day he'd make them pay for everything!

"Dog!"

He almost growled when he heard James calling him. They'd pay for that, too. His Pa might hate his name, but he didn't like this… this 'name' any better. But do what? He wished folks would call him Logan, because they sometimes said he was the 'Logan boy', but that was what most folks called his father. It didn't seem fair that Pa could have two nice names folks could use, Thomas and Logan, while he didn't have any. He remembered that day, in the beginning of summer, when Rose and James had come to talk to him.

"You're Logan's boy, aren't you?" She had asked. He had been afraid she might ask him his name, then, because he didn't know what he could have said. But she didn't.

"Your name's Dog, isn't it?" James had asked instead, and when he didn't answer the boy had just smiled and pointed brightly to the pretty red-head girl. "She's Rose. She's come to live with us in the house and play with me. Do you know the way to the pond? I wanted to show it to her, but I'm afraid I'll get lost…"

He had pointed the way, not even saying a word. But Rose had smiled, and asked him if he would like to go, too…

"Dog!! Huwy!" He felt his rage calm down slightly as the younger boy waved energetically with one hand. "Come and see what Wose found. Huwy!"

It was a tiny baby bird. James showed it to him with his typical cheerfulness, explaining he was going to take it home and raise it. He chuckled when he heard Rose's defeated sigh.

"It's gonna die." He then informed as he lay down on the grass, after a quick glance to the half feathered creature. "It must be fed by its Ma, and she won't do it now that it's outta the nest."

James was crestfallen for a moment, and then vigorously decided he'd take the baby back to its home, then. The boy looked at James, his clothes for playing outside very neatly arranged, and grinned. They might be more or less the same age, but the little master seemed years younger, both in looks and thinking.

"Don't be stupid, James. Ya can't climb a tree." He once more relaxed on the grass, but it was a short lived rest.

"James, Dog's right: you can't… No, James! Stop that!"

He sat up at the urgency in Rose's voice, and could see that James was determined to save the chick. Flushed face, he was confronting Rose and demanding she held the little bird while he climbed.

"You will not…" But she received the chick even as she talked, and James coughed a few times before getting ready. "You'll get hurt, James. Please! You're not well…"

"I am too!" He insisted, whiffing determinedly: "And it's not too hard to cwimb a twee. I've done it befo'."

With a grunt, the ragged boy got up and put his arm around James neck, pulling him away from the tree and keeping him locked in an embrace that had the boy coughing.

"Dog! Let him go. He can't breathe with you holding him like that."

But the dark haired boy ignored her. He wasn't hurting the sickly child. He even let him finish his coughing before explaining he couldn't take the bird back.

"Ya heard Rose: ya ain't well." And he wasn't; he never pronounced the r's and l's when his allergies got worse. "I'll do it."

One foot against the tree, the hardened skin adhering to the bark much better than James's well groomed shoes, and he started his ascension to search for the nest. It took a while before he located it, with Rose warning him to be careful while James cheered him on.

"He won't fa', Wose. Dog's much too good to fa' fwom a twee. Mo' to the wight, Dog! To the… No, the othe' wight. Yes, that's it!"

And indeed there it was. Illustrating James's faith in his abilities, he climbed down in an agile moment and asked for the chick. It was going to die anyway, he knew, because most mother birds let their chicks starve to death if you climbed to their nests and touched them. The other chicks in the nest would probably all die, because of this one. But he didn't tell James how stupid his idea of saving the chick was. He was just a little kid, anyway.

Climbing with the chick was harder. Rose fashioned a little bag from her handkerchief where the little creature could be safely transported, but it wasn't easy pulling himself up with only one arm. He scratched legs and arms mercilessly, sometimes going so far as to grab the handkerchief endings with his mouth. Nevertheless, every struggle got him closer to his target, until he finally reached his destination and carelessly dumped the chick. James hoorayed from below as he waved the now empty handkerchief to signal his success. Then, one of his feet slipped and his left arm lost its former grip on the branch it had been holding. In no time, he crashed through the branches to the sound of Rose's frightened yelp and stopped only at his companions' feet.

"Dog! Are you all right?"

"A'e you hu't?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Fine!" He grumpily shooed away James and Rose's attentions. "Ya distracted me, that's all."

Sighing in relief, her hand poised dandily over her heart, Rose sat down next to him. James, assured his companion was OK, went back to the tree and tried to gaze at the nest.

"Please be more careful, next time." She glanced over at James with a smile, not noticing the dirty boy's pale grimace. "James! The chicks are fine, now. It's time we return for lunch."

James was walking back, while Rose got up to meet him, and saw the ragged boy lie down with a pained expression, clutching his left arm.

"Dog! You a'e not well; you' hu't!" And when he snapped he was 'fine!', James sulked and insisted. "I saw you. You' awm is hu't."

Unfortunately, James had got too close and was caught quite by surprise when the boy sprang up and wrapped his right arm around James's legs. The helpless child fell down with a weak yelp, and in the next moment his companion was sitting on his midriff and holding his starched collar.

"Now, who's ya sayin' ain't well, huh?"

"Dog!! How dare you! Get off him." An outraged Rose was now trying to pull him back and out of her young charge, and he obeyed her sulkily when she grabbed his left arm, which was still aching from the fall. "What's wrong with you, today! You could have hurt James."

He watched as Rose worried around the coughing boy, dusting away his clothes and anxiously asking him if he was feeling all right in between glares at the half-sulking boy.

"I didn't do nuthin'." He complained. "We was just foolin' 'round, Rose. Ya treat 'im like he's a lil' girl."

But Rose was angry and would not have his explanations. She insisted James was not going to take part in such rough games, and not just because he was a sickly child.

"He is not one of those village boys you're used to play with, Dog. Fighting may come natural for you, boys, down below; but it's not right for a boy in his station." And then, holding James's hand as she guided him back to the house. "I wish all of you, boys, would just not enjoy fights at all."

James, however, had been glad to accept his companion's explanation and called to him to walk with them, which the sullen boy did.

"You we'e not awound anywhe'e, this mo'ning."

"I had stuff ta do."

"Oh. Do you have many cho'es awound the house? I could ask Papa to fwee you some, so you could spend mo'e time when we go out."

The boy almost stopped breathing. If Master John told his Pa he was to have less chores because… it was best not to even think about it! He suddenly remembered Harold saying Rose had been searching for him and was afraid Pa might have heard about it, too. He heard Rose comment it might be a good idea for his duties to be cleared, at least in the few times James felt well enough in the morning to go out.

Brown eyes suddenly glued to the ground, he shivered as he recalled the last time Pa had seen him in Rose and James's company. His hurt arm seemed to ache even more severely at the thought of what was most probably expecting him that night, just because he hadn't been seen working in the morning. If anything else were to aggravate his mood even further…

"Huh… Won't Master John be mad ya's playin' wi'me?" He looked down to the grass as he stepped on it, while James laughed and asked why his father should be mad. "Yeah, well… I don't have that many stuff ta do, ya know. So, maybe… maybe there's no need ta say nothin' ta no one."

"Tomowow," the thrilled boy continued, ignoring the other boy's sudden softness, "we can go see how the baby bi'd is doing. You come ea'ly to the house, and I te' Papa you won't do any cho'es in the mo'ning, because you a'e coming with me."

'Maybe his allergies would be worse in the next morning,' the boy hoped gloomily. James seldom left the house in the morning, anyway, because of his allergies, so it would be the most natural thing to happen.

He dragged himself behind James and Rose the next few yards, and the three parted ways at the end of the garden, near the maze. Usually, the boy worked in the garden through the morning, so that he could claim some food for lunch. The rule was for the house hands to receive free meals in the kitchen, as well as the grounds-keeper and the gardener. Field workers who lived outside the grounds had to bring their own meals or pay for it. It was the attempt to earn a good meal that often had the boy down on his knees, working hard all morning long. Besides, there was always a moment of distraction, during lunch time, that allowed him to sneak away with an extra loaf of bread for the evening meal, which he wasn't entitled to since he never gave up on a peaceful nap and some reckless wandering about after lunch.

That day, though, he hadn't been seen plucking away weeds long enough to ask for a meal. Shrugging, he headed for the orchard. He'd just have to settle for apples. He took the long way to avoid the stables. Pa was often around the area, helping with the horses, and he'd rather not find out just yet if he knew he'd been with Rose and James.

Stomach growling painfully, the boy wished he had heeded his Pa's warnings and stayed tending to the garden, as he should had. Because of James, he was going to be hungry all day long. Why couldn't he just stay in the house during the morning, as usual? He recalled how Pa often complained about 'them people in their fancy houses' who knew nothing about their 'life down below', and he was forced to agree neither Rose nor James knew a thing about it. And when his Pa's voice echoed a more seldom complain about 'them robbin' us of every lil' thing we ever think o' keepin'', he found himself mumbling that James had certainly robbed him of his lunch, just then, on account of a stupid chick that was going to die, anyway.

The boy heaved himself over the orchard fence easily, despite his still aching left arm. Standing on the narrow fence board, he grabbed a brightly red apple. Even if James didn't go out in the morning, the thought sprang out of nowhere, he would certainly want to go to the wood in the evening, his usual time to go out, to check on the birds. And then he was bound to find the chicks half starved, and no mama bird to be seen nowhere.

He sat down on the fence board, one leg dangling freely, as he munched the juicy fruit. He could go there, kill the birds and make a mess of the nest. That way, James would think it had been a cat that had eaten them, and wouldn't find out that all the chicks had died because of his stupidity. He finished eating the apple, swallowing inner seeds and everything; then stuffed his pockets, which split the fabric open in some points, and got two apples in his left hand, a third in his right.

Balancing himself along the fence, arms outstretched, he started walking towards the wood near the pond.

---------------------------------

Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	2. 1904, August

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**2. 1904, August**

Squatting on the grass, plucking weeds, the boy took off his straw hat to wipe his brow from the sweat. The morning sun was still hot, despite fall being so close by that the village school teacher had already returned. But school didn't bother the boy, who had only gone to a handful of classes in his entire life.

The only thing he had learnt at school was that teachers are both annoying and dangerous, with that rod of theirs always handy to come crashing down on somebody's back. So it was best to avoid the place altogether. Not that he didn't stop by, sometimes, and made faces at the boys who were stuck inside. He found it particularly funny that some had to sit at the window through the morning recess, watching his fellow colleagues play while they wore a big card-board dunce hat.

No, school didn't bother him. But having to spend the entire morning working on the lawn, though, bothered him a whole lot. The sun was the worse. He eyed the patch of grass still waiting for him. If he were fast, he would soon find himself under the shadow of the rose bushes; but they were so far away, and the sun kept rising in the sky and diminishing the cool looking shade. He sighed, once more wishing he was swimming in the pond.

"Psst…"

"Huh?" The boy looked back and saw James hiding behind a tree trunk, signalling him to come closer. He obeyed without second thoughts even though he guessed what the young master was doing.

"Rose is helping Mrs Hopkins, and she'll probably be at it all morning. Shall we go to the pond?"

The boy grinned. So typical.

"Let's."

Ten minutes later, both boys were running down the path that led to the pond. But James was neither as strong nor as fast as the barefoot boy and was falling behind. If Rose had been there, she wouldn't have let them run so fast; but she wasn't, and James ended up stopping and sitting down to catch his breath.

"Hey!" The dark haired boy jogged lazily back to his fallen companion. "Tired already?"

"I'm… I'm fine…" James was whizzing less frantically, now that he had taken off his bow-tie and unbuttoned his collar.

They were both sitting quietly under the cool shade of the trees, when a crow soared over them and came to a stop a few feet away. The black bird looked at them quizzically and crowed ominously. The older boy's brown eyes opened up in a sudden idea.

"James, have ya ever been ta the Indian cemetery?"

"Cemetewy?" Blue and brown eyes locked together excitedly. "Whewe is it?"

"Follow me. It ain't that far off."

It wouldn't have been, if they had both sprinted through bushes and trees, over little brooks, thorns and fallen logs. But James got tired after the first five minutes and started panting, dragging his feet and bumping them against every little thing that clogged the ground.

"A'e we much fa' off, yet?"

"Yes, we are, if ya don't start movin' faster. And ya ask me that again, I swear I'll leave ya behind ta be eaten by the wolves."

James whimpered and tried to walk faster, but his feet seemed to weight tons. Then, all of a sudden, he lost sight of his guide. He stopped and looked around fearfully.

"Dog?" He whispered, but when he heard no answer he felt a sudden rush of energy course through his veins and he started running towards where he thought his companion should be.

"Dog?" He called louder, this time. And then, just like that, James found himself crashing face first onto the leaf covered ground.

"DOOOOOG!!!"

"Whatchya yellin' fer?" The older boy looked down at James, confused. Why was he kneeling on the ground whizzing, his dirty face streaked with tears? "Ya look like a scared lil' girl."

"You weft me behind." The little master accused, sulking. "I want to go back home."

"But the Indian cemetery's…"

"I don't ca'e about you' stupid cemetewy. Take me back to the house, Dog."

The boy scowled dangerously. "Ya wanted ta see the cemetery, and I'm takin' ya there. Now get movin'."

"No!" James pulled himself to his full height but was still shorter than the ragged boy in front of him. "I towd you to take me home and you wi' do as I say. Now!"

James's heart skipped a beat when the scowl shifted into a grin he fancied was a bit… evil. He swallowed.

"Ya know, I could do that… but I'm goin' ta the cemetery first, and then I guess I might take another way back to the house. So, unless ya wanna stay here and find yer way back all by yerself, I suggest ya follow me."

And without much ado, the boy turned his back on James and moved on. It took five seconds for James to call out for him and start walking; unfortunately, five seconds was all it took for him to lose sight of the other boy.

James was getting scared. The woods were dark and cold, and he fancied he heard wolves howling far off. Or maybe it was close by.

"DOG! Come back…" He sat down on the dirty floor. He was having trouble breathing and he wanted to be home desperately. He couldn't believe he had just been deserted… abandoned to die in a…

"Get up."

James jumped up at the unexpected voice from behind him.

"Ya're goin' the wrong way." The boy explained patiently. James was whizzing away terrified and he felt a bit uncomfortable. "Here. Hold on ta me and I'll carry ya."

They went the rest of the way in silence, the ragged boy advancing slowly under the weight of the younger boy he was carrying on his back. Eventually, though, they reached a clearing in the wood.

"This is it. Get off, James."

James gave two uncertain steps. He wasn't whizzing so much anymore, but he wasn't well. However, comforted by his companion's help, he ignored his own weakness and looked intently around him.

"A'e you su'e it's he'e? I don't see any cwosses o' tomb stones."

"Don't be stupid, James. They's Indians! They ain't got no crosses or tomb stones." The boy grabbed the little master by his shoulders and directed him to one side. "See it?"

"It… Is it that hole, on the gwound?"

"Yes, siree! Com'on, let's take a closer look"

The clearance ended abruptly in a rocky crevice. It wasn't very wide, just enough for one boy to go through at a time, and it was very dark. James hesitated, but his companion was already choosing the best way in. Standing outside in the sun, he saw the ragged boy stoop and search the irregular rock floor.

"Lookit here, James!" The boy climbed out of the hole holding something in his closed fist. A pair of blue eyes opened in excitement when the hand revealed its captive. "An Indian arrow-head. There's tons o' them around."

"Hey, Dog, do you think… do you think the Indians sti' come he'e?"

The boy smiled brightly and lowered his voice to a secretive whisper.

"I ain't ever seen none, but ya bet yer life they's still 'round, all right. One day, I came here an' there was a bunch o' footsteps all around, and pretty fresh, too. I figure they must've come here during the night. An' then I went inta the cave and guess what I found! A brand new freshly-made handful of arrows. It's 'cause them Indians, they don't light up candles fer the dead like white folks do; they leave behind arrows and knives and other Indian stuff."

The boy's smile brightened a bit further at the expression of amazement in James's eyes.

"And you wewen't afwaid, Dog?"

"Who, me? I ain't 'fraid o' nuthin'!" His smile changed into a sly grin. "What about you, James? Ya's 'fraid ta go inside?"

The young boy swallowed hard, but filled his chest and claimed he was ready to go in. Unfortunately, his shoes didn't allow him to get a firm grip. He had just ventured three steps into the crevice when his left foot slipped and he tumbled a few feet until he bumped onto his guide. The boy cursed at the clumsy kid, but soon hushed his anger when he realised James had ripped his trousers and cut his knee.

"I'm fine, Dog. It's nothing."

Still, the older boy couldn't help wondering what Rose would say when she saw James's knee. He decided it was best to cut the adventure short, so he told James to sit down and rest a little.

"There's a couple skeletons up ahead," he explained. "But it's very dark and ya can't see well. Tell ya what, ya wait here and I'll bring ya somethin' fer ya ta see."

James paled a little at the idea of being left all alone near a dead man, but he held his tongue. Instead, he just asked him softly if he had really never been afraid.

"'Course not, James." And then he added, sitting next to the young boy. "But village folks are. They says there's ghost's flyin' 'round here at night. Lookin' ta steal folks' souls."

James took a deep scared breath and the older boy almost laughed.

"A'e the'e wea'y ghosts?"

"Well… I been here lots o' times and never seen none; but ya know what they says: ghosts never meddle with someone they can't handle."

"Huh… Yes, I know," James put in, scratching his dirty face after a moment's hesitation. "I think I wemembe' Wose saying that, too, when she was weading fo' me, one day."

"Oh." The boy hesitated a moment, not knowing that Rose had never spoken to James of such things and feeling slightly annoyed that his carefully made up saying was actually real. "Well, there ya have. So them ghosts knows best than ta meddle with me."

"Anyways, guess what happened the other night." And before the young boy could say anything: "a bunch o' clowns from the village decided they was gonna come up here and spend the night, waitin' fer ghosts."

"Oh, did they see anything?"

Dog sat closer to James and lowered his voice to a whisper.

"I heard 'em talkin' so I got 'ere first. That's why there wasn't no ghosts 'round. But! They didn't know that, did they? Now this cave," he pointed to the darkest area off into the earth, "it's very, very deep; and it's got some tunnels windin' away inta different directions. Ya know, the cave is so big, there's prob'bly even more skeletons, down there."

"You wewen't afwaid to get wost?"

"Nah! I know these tunnels. Been here lots o' times before. 'Sides, I brought a candle with me. I went down the cave, past the skeletons, and hid very well 'fore blowin' out the light. Then I waited fer 'em dumb village boys."

James was getting excited with the tale, much to the boy's glee. He wished he had thought of bringing James here sooner.

"They came down whisp'rin', all scared and frightened. When they got ta the skeletons, I started clangin' some pots I'd brought wi' me, and they was all cryin' 'bout 'em ghosts gonna come an' get 'em."

Eddie Malcolm had been the only one to stand up and tell the others to shut up. If it hadn't been for him, the boy was sure, everyone would have just scrambled away from the place.

"Now, they was scared ta death, already, but there was one of 'em who was playin' the tough guy. But I had thought he might, so I had bagged me a cat and brought it in. When Malcolm got in his head ta check out the inner tunnels, I shook the bag some and the cat got ta meowin' like crazy. They started all runnin' when they heard it. And then, then I let the cat out and it sped through the cave like the devil itself! Ya should'ave seen 'em runnin'!"

They both laughed at the stampeding boys, and James also agreed they were all cowardly wussies. The boy was very pleased with himself, but especially with James's appreciation for his prank. He was so pleased he actually forgot that he had jokingly asked Eddie Malcolm, some days later, if they had been much afraid of the cat the Indian ghosts had sent after them, and that the older boy had sworn to cut him up. Not that he had been much troubled with the threat: he was confident on his abilities to avoid the pack's vengeance.

"Huh, Dog? Shouldn't we get back, now?"

"What? Ya don't even want ta check out the skeletons?" He looked down on the younger boy with disappointment, but James hurried to say he meant they should continue so that then they could return. "Oh, O.K. then. Follow me, but be very careful. I don't want ya ta fall again, and bust yer head or somethin'."

He missed James swallowing insecurely. However, he did sense the boy's uneasiness and he reached a hand behind, to guide him through the darkened tunnel.

"It's here."

"I can't see anything, Dog."

"Oh, stop whinin'! Just sit down and look back."

James did as he was told and turned his back to the pitch black wall that had stood ahead of him until then. Now, he was facing the way out, and a thin veil of light could be distinguished, helping the rocky walls to regain their rightful shape. They waited until their eyes got used to the dark, then the ragged boy showed the bundle of white bones near one of the walls.

"Oh, wow!"

"Hehe… And look at this!" Almost immediately a human skull was dropped on James's hands.

"Oh… wooow!" Dog smiled happily while James gawked at the thing. "Can we take it? To show Wose?"

"Ya're crazy?! Ya can't tell her I brought ya here. Ya can't tell no one! 'Sides, Rose's a girl. All girls are 'fraid o' skulls an' dead people. Not ta mention, the ghosts might get angry at ya takin' it away, an' they'd prob'bly go after ya."

"Oh." The boy laughed at how quickly James returned him the skull. "Stop waughing. I just don't want to stay he'e much wonge'. It's wate and I'm hungwy. We must go back now."

It was easier to get out than to get in, but that didn't stop James from slipping and falling two more times. When they were finally out in the open, they chatted a bit more about the Indians buried there. How many more might there be yet? How old were they? Why had they been left there instead of buried in the earth, like normal folks? James was coughing some possibilities when the older boy lost his mirth. James was all dirty, and his trousers were ripped, and his knee was scraped, and he was both whizzing and coughing a whole awful lot.

"Com'on, James. Let's get goin'. Here, climb up onto my back and I'll carry ya. It'll be faster."

James protested, but a few minutes later, when they were already walking through the wood and the older boy once more offered to carry him, he accepted. They went on silently after that. James whizzing softly on his companion's back; the other boy mulling over what Rose would say when she saw James's condition.

It was late when they reached the house gardens, and James had already complained a few times that he was hungry. Actually he hadn't had to; the burdened boy could feel the little master's stomach complaining as clearly as he could feel his own.

They stopped inside the maze and both sat down breathlessly.

"Why did we stop he'e, Dog?"

"'Cuz ya gonna go the rest o' the way by yerself. And remember: ya can't tell no one where I took ya. But that's really no one, James. Ya can't even tell Rose, ya got it?"

"But I'm tiwed, Dog. Pwease take me inside…" He whizzed in between coughs. "I don't think I can walk… that much."

The ragged boy got up, annoyed, and kicked some dust at James.

"Stop bein' such a wussie! I carried ya all the way here, ya can't tell me ya can't take a few steps ta the house?!"

But James only coughed back at him, in response. Then, much to the boy's despair, he heard footsteps approaching and Rose's voice calling him.

"Dog? Is that you? I thought I heard yo… James!" That was it; all was lost now. "My goodness, James! Where have you been? Master John's worried sick that you went off by yourself and never showed up for lunch. He even sent Mr. Kenneth and Harold searching the woods for you and… Oh, blast your hide… Look at you! What have you done t'yourself, James?"

The barefoot boy had been retreating slowly, hoping that Rose would just forget all about him… and that James would remember his promise and not rat him out. Unfortunately, the girl's green eyes flashed angrily at him. He froze immediately and swore he hadn't done anything, that he had just…

"Oh, blast you too, Dog. You know James can't get tired or he'll be sick. Where have the two of you been?"

"Nowhere…" Rose wouldn't be fooled by his muttering and cast eyes, but James's condition came first.

"Oh, blasted boys! Master John will have both your hides, he will. Running off and making an uproar in the house…. Help me take James inside, Dog. Hurry."

But the boy wouldn't move. He hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't his fault! Why did it always have to be his fault? He sprinted off.

"Dog!"

He kept running, though, closing his eyes at Rose's indignation and his heart to the fear that James was going to rat him out. But he wouldn't, he told himself…

…would he?

---------------------------------

Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	3. 1908, April

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**3. 1908, April**

The air was cold, the wind gusts were colder. Wrapped in his old grey flannel shirt, the boy tried to get comfortable under a towering tree. The winter snow had long melted, but nights were far from being pleasant. Once he had found a comfortable spot, he pulled his flat cap over his eyes. He wasn't interested in looking at the bright starscape above him.

Crickets sounded their shy voices, while owls called to one another and occasional wolf howls echoed from far. With a sigh, he remembered a promise from long ago. "You'll grow big and strong." He sometimes fancied a face to fill in the blank space of the blonde memory. His Ma, he sometimes thought. "I will," he always responded. And despite the cold that seemed to sip through his flesh all the way to his bones, he closed his eyes to sleep. Strong men don't let cold bother them, he would tell himself. Strong men don't let no one or anything bother them.

Naturally, he felt stiff and half frozen in the morning. Chattering teeth, he opened his chest to the morning light, defying anything to suggest he was a weakling. He quickly walked to the orchard, for some breakfast apples, refraining himself from running. It was a boring business, to simply sit down amidst the apple trees while eating, so he looked around for some fun. Collecting pebbles along the way, the boy stopped with a grin when he finally saw what he had been looking for: the apple keeper's dogs.

They were dozing off peacefully, having already lost their youth days' vitality. The boy finished eating his apple, biting down hard on the seeds, and threw the first stone. He missed the dogs on purpose, as he just wanted to get their attention. At the third stone, they were both up and barking furiously, ready to attack whoever had upset their rest. The boy gave them some time and picked up a few more pebbles. When the dogs got close enough to make the game interesting, he launched a full scale attack. One of the dogs, the black and brown runt, had attempted to face the incoming stones to bite the disrespectful intruder, but had ended up retreating with a whelp as the boy aimed a stone right at its snout.

Laughing in good mood, the boy got up and picked a couple more apples. He slowly got on his way towards the Howlett Estate, not really looking forward to his gardening duties. Not that he did much. Every now and then Master John would complain to his Pa he wasn't keeping the garden in good order and then he'd get a beating; but recently, a young boy from the village had started coming up to take care of the weeds, so he needn't worry so much about the house folks ratting him out for being lazy. And what did they know, anyway!

He wandered about the garden with a pruning scissor in hand, careful to spot Rose. He sometimes glimpsed her going about her duties in the house. Her hair simply couldn't be missed, no matter how dark they kept those rooms. Prettiest thing he had ever seen. He still remembered that first day he had seen her. There weren't words that could have described her in her very neat white dress. The boy started cutting away random twigs as he walked around. She had always been nice to him… She had actually been the first and only person to ever call him 'sir'. 'Thank you, sir', she had said.

He threw the scissors away as the memory bubbled up, as hot as the summer had been. The afternoons at the pond, the evenings wandering about… She was always around James, always busying herself on account of the sickly boy; but she didn't forget him. She used to bring some bread and jam for a sort of tea meal and insist that he had some, too. She used to smile to him so very brightly, especially when he had started meeting them, in those first times, without any need for invitations on her or James's account. James… He kicked a pebble off his way.

He had pretended to be so friendly, so very best friends, but he was nothing but a meddling little thief. And ungrateful, too. How could he ever forget that he had saved him from drowning at the pond, once, and the pay he had got had been being ratted out? Even if he lived one hundred years, he would not forget James's treason, that day. Or all the times James had mentioned how he went with him and Rose every evening. All the beatings he had got because of the blasted fool. Master James.

He wished the boy would just up and die from his allergies, already. At least that way he wouldn't keep Rose away, anymore. Because that was why Rose never came out to see him, he knew. James just kept her so busy she didn't have the time. What other reason could there be?

"Hey, Dog!" The blasted Harold boy. "Mister Kenneth's been lookin' fer ya. He says ya's late fer goin' down ta the village."

Sulking, the boy walked to the stable after Harold. They were the same size, now, even though the other was older; and he wasn't the weaker one, either. Just a few weeks before, he had waited for the stable boy on his way to the village and avenged his Pa's name. Old pal Harold would not go off that very soon claiming his Pa was a murderer, or anything else; because he knew Dog Logan's pen knife wasn't as easy to stop as it had been a few years ago.

As he got closer to the stables, the boy noticed his Pa sitting under a tree, apparently watching the horses grazing. He felt a shiver up his spine. He hoped the man was too drunk to notice he had been late for his weekly duties. He knew Harold wouldn't rat him off; the boy had been too scared of going near old Logan ever since he had decided to tell him he shouldn't mistreat the horses and had received a few belt lashes. The boy grinned as he remembered that Harold's father had come up with two guys to face Pa, and had ended up running for their lives. Not many men could claim as good an aim as his Pa. At least when he was sober, they couldn't. And Harold had known better than to disrespect his elders ever since.

Kenneth, though, might complain that he had been late. Or Master John. That was all they did, anyway; complain and then rat him out. Fortunately, there wasn't anyone else at the stables, so the boy promptly got the small wagon ready and got the old brown horse from its box. He was guiding the animal to its place, petting it as he harnessed it. The horse was a bit nervous, but the boy knew that two smooth words and some petting was all it took to quiet the animal.

He had nearly finished when the horse's ears became fully erect. The boy only noticed something was wrong when the horse puffed and then pawned the ground. He froze when he saw his Pa frowning, watching his movements intently. Swallowing hard, he couldn't make up his mind between continuing his work as if he hadn't seen him, or acknowledging the man' presence. Either course of action could prove disastrous. Having finished setting the trappings, he took off his flat cap and looked straight at his Pa, who was holding a bottle on the other side of the nervous horse.

"Hey, Pa. I'm off ta the village now."

The boy nearly flinched at his father's gaze. He was definitely dead drunk; and dieing for giving a beating to someone, too. After a nervous nod, he got up to the driver's seat and signalled the horse to move with a light pull of the reins. Unfortunately, the animal was too nervous to obey and simply whined, pawning the ground more strongly. Blasting his luck, the boy reached for a small rod, but before he could use it, Thomas Logan was already cursing the lazy boy and the stupid beast, and hitting the animal's back with the apparently empty bottle.

The horse reared up as much as it could, trapped to the wagon, and started galloping away. The boy nearly fell back at the unexpected start, but soon got his bearings together and calmed the horse down, bringing it to a halt. He knew the horse well enough, since he had been doing the weekly round to the village market for over a year, now; so he took off the trappings and let the horse out to graze for a few minutes. He was careful to keep its side, petting it.

"Ya're such a big, stupid beast." He said softly. "Why didn't ya just start when I told ya ta, huh? Got us both in trouble, ya did, 'cause o' that. Stupid, old horse… Ya's calm now? Are ya? Then let's get ya back ta work, jackass, 'fore we really get inta trouble fer bein' late."

Slowly, the horse let the boy guide it back to the wagon and stood placidly as he once more harnessed its trappings. Fortunately, the village was only a few minutes away, and he soon spotted the store where he was to pick up whatever Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeeper, had ordered the week before.

"'Mornin', Dog," the owner greeted his usual silence, "ya're a bit late, ain't ya? I've been expectin' ya fer a while."

The boy lowered his head and grumbled something inaudibly. The man, though, grinned and led him to the place where the Howlett order was stocked up.

"There ya go, boy. When ya've finished loadin' the wagon, I'll give ya the receipt. Make it speedy, now."

The stock consisted of bags of rice, flour and sugar, as well as some fabric and sewing stuff, and a couple craters with meat and fish, well kept between ice and straw. He hadn't yet finished loading up everything when Laura Olson showed up with her little sister and a friend. Laura was one of the prettiest girls in all the region, was often said, and no one could say otherwise, not with that pure golden hair and those warm, blue eyes on a faultless white skin. The boy stooped down to grab a crater and purposefully stopped on his track, crate effortlessly resting on his shoulder, gazing at her. Her red lips twitched in an inviting smile, and the boy got the crater in the wagon in a swift, elegant movement. The giggles rang up in the air immediately.

The three girls were walking slowly to the store. Laura Olson's friend, a dark haired girl with a big nose and black, shining eyes, essayed a slight nod towards him. Grinning, he leaned on the back of the wagon, arms crossed over his chest to watch them go by. He noticed Laura's cheeks blushing graciously as she bit her lip and suddenly decided to go further than usual. As they walked closer, needing to pass by him before reaching the store entrance, the boy slid off his position by the wagon rear and reached the dirt pave way the girls were walking along, placing himself parallel to the wagon.

He didn't say anything. He knew well enough he didn't have to. He had his back turned to the pave way the two girls would soon go through, as if looking at the bundles he had already loaded. He heard the giggling and the sound of the cotton dresses ruffling against one another. Looking lazily over his shoulder, he saw Laura hurrying her little sister, probably eight or something, to the other side of the path, away from him, as the dark haired girl held on to the blonde's arm in blushing expectancy. When they were exactly behind him, the boy straightened himself to his full height and turned, bumping onto Laura's side.

Both girls' eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets as he gave one small step forward, almost pressing them against the store's wooden wall. It was just a moment of surprise, and they both started smiling coyly.

"Hi, Dog." The dark haired girl whispered shyly.

He could feel his grin morph into something else. Without thinking, he got even closer to the girls, frightening them, and snapped:

"Boo!"

With a twin girly yelp, the two girls sprinted for the store, stopping at the entrance to award him one last flushed gaze. The boy snorted as he saw them disappear. Village girls. They were nothing compared to Rose; all empty heads and stupid smiles and giggles. Yet he enjoyed giving them his attention. He enjoyed the way they gazed him up and down, trying to hide their blushes. And he particularly enjoyed going after a few selected ones, trapping them in hidden areas, where they would often show their true colours. Hadn't done it to Laura Olson or her friend, yet… But the girls sure seemed ready for a stronger 'boo'.

--------------------------------

The boy was whistling carelessly as the horse slowly returned to the Howlett Estate, up the hill, a forest patch on one side of the road and an empty field on the other. The warm sun was shining lazily, birds chirping about as they searched for food and mates. He found himself wishing the house were still hours away, so that he could continue enjoying the peace and quiet for a bit longer. He closed his eyes, feeling the sun wrap its rays all around him.

Distracted, he didn't become aware of the upcoming storm until it was too late. He heard the horse whine and stop; and as he opened his eyes, he only saw the world tumble in front of him, while a sharp tug brought him down from the driver's seat. Almost all the feet around him sported shoes, some new, most old and tattered. Like his own.

Fuming, he got up quickly, ready to face the other boys. The former pack. They surrounded him, five of the boys. A sixth one was leading away the old horse and its wagon. Despite being older, only two were taller, but the boy knew all too well that, together, they were definitely stronger.

"I've been wantin' ta have a word with ya, Dog." Fists closed, the boy got ready to fight; but the leader of the group just looked him in the eye, hissing coldly. "Ya're gonna pay fer what ya did ta my sister, Becky."

"Me?" He opened his eyes, innocently shocked. "Hey, I just picked up where yer pal Jonas left!"

The blow came from behind, against his expectations, and caught him off guard: his hit knee gave in and he fell. Almost immediately, the others started kicking him everywhere. Ignoring the pain, he protected his head with one arm and searched for his pen-knife with the other. Eventually, a boy fell behind, yelling over a cut leg; a second one retreating despite only having received a scratch.

Hands fell over him, holding his wrist, trying to wrestle the knife away from him. But he held on to it desperately, biting, kicking and screaming. His hand became slippery, when the blade cut his own flesh; but he'd rather shred his hand to pieces than lose the one thing that gave him an edge over the village boys.

Without even knowing how, he managed to break free from the group's grip and roll away from them. Squatting, his breath coming in and out hard, he looked around for the horse and wagon, but it hadn't been led that far off. He almost sighed in relieve. He'd be skinned alive if something happened to it. Then he noticed that Eddie Malcolm had taken out his own pen-knife. Just great!

"Ya're gonna get it now, Dog!"

"Geez, Malcolm," he tried to sound condescending, but he knew the other boy was dangerous. "All this 'cuz o' yer sister's honor? She goes about kissin' every guy she sees! Ya gonna cut'em all up too?"

Howling, the village boy sprang forward, but he ducked away from harm's way and attacked immediately, managing to slice the other boy's arm.

"First blood's mine." He grinned, hope of actually winning the confrontation dawning slowly in his spirit.

"I'm gonna KILL ya!"

Eddie Malcolm leaped and the boy tried to get an edge, aiming for the village boy's belly, but that was exactly what he had been expected to do. Eddie grabbed his wrist, twisting it out of his way, and punched his target right on the nose. When he opened his eyes, the only thing he could see was Eddie's blue eyes flashing with hatred, spit hitting his face as he continued screaming "Ya're dead, ya hear me! Ya're DEAD!!", and the blade feeling very cold against his neck.

But he didn't die. The screaming continued and the final blow never came, despite the blade's bite on his neck. He was vaguely aware of the other boys pulling Eddie back, trying to calm him down. But he was only awarded an escape when one of the pack boys, probably a younger, stupid member, said weakly that "Becky IS always going out ta meet boys, anyways". He had no idea who had said it; all he knew was that, suddenly, Malcolm had swapped targets and was now viciously punching someone else in the face.

He rolled to the side, and got up to run. He heard the commotion behind him die out some and ran harder. Once he reached the wagon, he calculated, he'd hit the animal into a fast gallop that would take him to safety.

"Coward!" They were yelling behind him. His blood boiled, but he wasn't exactly interested in getting killed so he didn't stop to avenge the insult.

Two strides away from salvation, he stooped down to grab a handful of stones and jumped aboard. Without even bothering to get the reigns, he got hold of the rod and hit the horse's back savagely, which took off whining loudly. Finally moving, he stood up on the seat. One of the pack boys, a curly red head with a face distorted by freckles, had managed to jump onto the back of the wagon, and his effort was quickly awarded with a speeding stone aimed at his head, which, fortunately for the teenager, only hit the shoulder. The fall onto the dirt road was quite spectacular, though, as he tumbled and rolled for a few feet and some of his friends had to jump over his body to avoid being toppled.

Laughing, the boy watched his opponents disappear behind a turn and let himself fall onto the seat. Almost immediately, he heard a loud crack and the world once more tumbled in front of his eyes as a wheel broke loose. The horse ploughed on for a while, until the extra friction caused by the missing wheel convinced it to stop.

The boy remained on the seat, moaning against his bad luck. He surveyed the morning damages: a deep gash on his bloodied right hand was starting to sting, his body ached all over, and there was a trickle of blood on his neck from Malcolm's knife. He made sure his own knife was securely away in his pocket as he sulked. He'd have to be extra careful until some other guy decided to have a go at Becky Malcolm, providing Eddie with a new target. It shouldn't take too long, but he'd still have to be very, very careful. The short-tempered Eddie had once broken his own brother's arm over something stupid, and since his father was a Mounty, he could get away with almost anything. Probably even murder.

Grumbling, he got off the seat and checked the packs: the crates had tumbled off their place, and a wrap was partially ripped, showing a heavy dark red fabric. Nothing too troublesome. Then he recovered the lost wheel. Both inner and outer wood frames were in good condition, but there was one wooden beam missing and a second one was cracked. That meant only three beams in good condition, which would probably snap because of the extra stress they'd be under, if the cracked beam broke. He sighed. He had helped Kenneth fixing broken wheels a few times, so he knew how to mend the problem until getting back. He got a piece of rope from the wagon to wrap around the cracked beam securely, hoping to convey some resistance; then he unloaded all the packs, took off the horse's trappings and used the horse to lift the end of the wagon. Sweating and swearing, he fumbled for a few minutes until he finally managed to attach the wheel to the axle-tree.

He was dead tired when he finished, but it still wasn't over. The wheel could easily slid off again, because the peg that kept it in place was no where to be seen. He searched for a fallen tree branch for a long time before he found one that would work; then he sat down to carve its shape into exactly what he wanted. First, though, he had to rip a piece of his shirt to bandage his right hand, and it still hurt. Finally, he decided the wooden piece was good enough and tried it at the end of the axle-tree. It fit. He secured the peg by tying it with some rope, just to be on the safe side. There. It surely wouldn't last long, at least the wooden beam patch wouldn't, but with a bit of luck he'd be able to reach the house.

After once more loading the wagon and strapping the horse, he got on the driver's seat and slowly drove the animal. He knew that the slower he went, the better the chances of the wheel patch holding. Looking up at the sky, he could tell the sun was falling away from its top position in the sky and groaned. He was hungry. So very hungry. And not only had he already lost lunch, he was surely up for a preaching from Kenneth, for being late. And he hadn't even done anything wrong!

Blasted Eddie Malcolm! It was all his fault.

--------------------------------

Night was falling. Axe forgotten in his hands, the boy looked around, searching the dark. Nothing. There wasn't anything moving anywhere. He scratched his back absent-mindedly. Eventually, he grew tired of the wait and got down to chop some wood; then he entered the house and stocked the stove.

Once the fire was blazing, he got some water in an old pot and set it on the top. He searched a creaking doorless cupboard until he found a stale piece of bread and a coffee can. Soon, the water became dark and filled the house with a warm perfume. The boy's stomach grumbled noisily and he hunched in front of the stove. Opening the door to the burning wood, he speared the loaf of bread with his knife and got it closer to the fire. The bread darkened around the edges and he laid down on the floor, eating it. It was such a pity apple trees couldn't give fruit all year round…

When he finished eating, he got his cup and had some coffee. It was good and strong, like his Pa liked it. A shiver went up his spine. Sitting near the stove, he listened intently, but the only noise came from the crackling fire as it slowly burned itself out.

The boy closed his eyes and breathed out hard. He didn't dare guess if it was good or bad that Pa hadn't arrived yet. One thing was for sure, he was down at the bar near the village. If he had done something wrong, he'd get it the moment he arrived. He racked his brain searching for some possible offences. He hadn't been seen talking to no one from the house, because he hadn't talked to anyone, so that one was out. But! The wagon wheel had broken when he was driving, and his Pa might have been upset because the stupid horse hadn't started walking at the right time. He bit his lower lip.

One thing to keep in mind was that he had done his job: he had gone down to the village and got the stuff as he was supposed to. And he had wasted the entire afternoon fixing the darned wheel properly, afterwards. Would stupid Kenneth rat him out because of the broken meat crate? It hadn't been his fault. He hadn't done anything. But Kenneth had said Mrs Hopkins had complained to Master John about things not being in a good condition, so that he wouldn't pay for a product in poor state… What if he had said something to his Pa?

A cold sweat had the boy up and gazing first out the window, then out the door. Still no one. He remembered how Pa was always saying the Master was a soft bloke, too stupid to know how to keep folks in their right place. He sat down next to the stove again. The coals were almost out, now. He hoped the man would live up to his reputation and not say a word about anything.

The boy yawned. It was late and he was tired. He knew he had better sleep some, if he planned to spend the night in the house. Pa was always angry if he slept in, like a 'lazy bum'. Well, at least one thing he was right about: he wouldn't eat anything if he didn't work for it. And if he planned to work enough to earn himself some lunch, as well as escape a few belt lashes, he had to be up early.

He stretched himself and got a blanket from a corner. He thought about getting down to sleep near the stove, since it was warmer there, but that would be a hazardous place. Instead, he curled himself up, wrapped in the blanket, on the dark corner behind the door. He was well out of sight and, more importantly, well out of his Pa's way, when he arrived. Maybe he'd be too drunk to remember anything he might have been ratted out for. The thought comforted him some. He had already got a beating, that day, but he was sure he could manage a few days in-between the next. Feeling optimistic, the boy closed his eyes and relaxed.

---------------------------------

Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	4. 1908, November

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site uncannyxmen. net has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**4. 1908, November**

He was scared.

Mister Howlett had not once taken his eyes off him, and he knew – he knew – that the old man had somehow found the truth.

He didn't dare lift his eyes from the coach's muddy floor. He followed a small dark spider working its way past the mountains of earth scattered around, until it reached the vicinity of Mister Howlett's black shoes. Yet, even glancing at those shoes felt foolhardy and he quickly looked somewhere else.

He hated how long the journey was taking. He was tired of sitting, despite the cushioned seats, doing nothing but looking down and remembering to exhaustion all the events that had happened in the last two days. The coach had been going on for hours, it seemed, and so far he hadn't once dared looking through the window. However, he had been able to glimpse the growing number of houses. Soon, he decided, they'd be in the big city to the east. The one where Mister Howlett lived. At least he hoped they were going to that house… No, he once more decided. They were definitely going to that house. Definitely. However, unevenly tucked under that decision, was a strong paralysing fear born from the countless stories he had heard about the man sitting opposite.

What if Mister Howlett decided to take him away? To somewhere else, he meant, far, far away? Like that land where folks used to have slaves and where black people were still treated like rabid dogs.

The boy knew of the other house the old Howlett had, down in the south, in another country. He wasn't sure what the name of the country was, but its king was a George or something. Yes, the country of George, if he remembered folks right. Mister Howlett had worked there and opened up a big mine in some lakes and got very, very rich. And then he had opened many more mines everywhere and got even more rich… And it was all because he had slaves, he knew. Because folks in the village said so, sometimes; that old Howlett wanted miners and everyone else to work like slaves, and that he treated them like dogs, too. Rabid dogs.

So what if… and it was such a scary idea he didn't even want to think about it, but what if Mister Howlett decided to turn him into a slave, too? Could that happen? Could white folks be turned into slaves? No one in the village had ever said anything about the miners being white or black, that he had heard of, so he had no way of knowing.

Anger boiled inside him and burned his eyes. It was all James's fault. Cutting his face with a knife and then killing everyone and running away. And Rose, too. Why hadn't they come back for him? Why had they left him behind to take the blame for it all? Damn them all to hell! Both of them.

The boy was so focused in his own fear and anger, he actually jumped in his seat when the coach came to a halt. Mister Howlett got out and waited for him to follow. Barefoot, he followed, his head hanging so low he could barely acknowledge his surroundings. All he could realise was that Master John's Estate was much bigger than Mister Howlett's, and that the gardens sported tall trees and hedges, keeping the main building from everyone's sight as much as possible.

He followed Mister Howlett into the house. In the hall, the old man called for a housekeeper, who took his coat and hat and went in search of paper and ink. Then he entered a wide room and the boy reluctantly followed.

"Stand where you are, boy. Those carpets are not to be dirtied by your feet." Mister Howlett sat down and the housekeeper arrived with the requested goods. The man ordered the woman to do something while he wrote a note, with which she alighted out of the room as quickly as she could without running. "I shall repeat what I told you yesterday, boy, to make sure you have not forgotten one word of the exchange: you are mine to do as I please, from now on. And you will obey me in everything."

"Yes, sir."

"Look at me when you're talking to me, boy!" The boy jumped at the irritation in Mister Howlett's voice and swallowed hard. "I want to be able to see if you're lying in your eyes."

The boy stared helplessly into the old man's blue eyes. Old, those eyes might be, but not in the least weak or forgiving. He was uncomfortable and uncertain about his future, but something inside him dared to rebel and he knew he would not run away from that stare of steel.

"What're my duties gonna be?"

There. Even if it was only a whisper of stubborn voice he had managed, he had set down his foot and warned the man he was not going to be anyone's slave. Yet he almost repented his decision when Mister Howlett narrowed his eyes threateningly.

"You shall not speak unless you are asked to, is that understood, boy?" He swallowed and nodded affirmatively. "And you shall always address me as 'sir'! Now, you have gone to school, have you not? How well do you read and write, and count?"

The boy trembled. School?

"I've asked you a question. Speak up!"

"I… huh… I don't… I ain't ever gone ta no school. Sir." And at Mister Howlett's deep frown, he explained: "Pa said them teachers knew nuthin' worth botherin' with."

"Well, of course he said so," he snorted, disgusted. "That father of yours was nothing but a stupid murderous savage."

"He was not stupid!" The boy jumped towards the old man, who held on to his walking stick. There was a self-preservation instinct that stopped him from actually trying to attack Mister Howlett physically, but the anger inside him had found an outlet and it was blazing recklessly. "Pa was not stupid, and he was no savage, you… you dumb-ass! Pa was…"

The walking stick crashed onto the table with a deafening sound that cut the boy's rebellion short.

"You enjoy biting the hand that feeds you, huh? Well, don't you worry, because I know just how to handle dogs with a temper." The boy sensed his undoing was near by and thought frantically of a way to escape. "You're as much a savage dog as Logan ever was, that's for sure. But we'll see if I don't fix you up, boy. Duties, wasn't it? You wanted to know your duties? Well, your first one shall be to fetch me a whip from the stable house. Ask for Mister Alcott to give you the boy's cat."

"Huh?"

The man approached the boy slowly, but the slap that had him sprawling on the oak floor came as fast as lightning.

"You have been warned, boy." Following long imprinted habits, the boy curled up into a ball, his hands over his head to protect it from any incoming blow. "You shall always treat me as 'Mister Howlett, SIR'. And do not ever forget it again. Now do as you were told!"

But the boy continued curled up on the floor, much to Mister Howlett's chagrin, inviting the tip of the walking stick to poke into his back quite fiercely.

"Get up, you lazy bastard! Get up, I say; and fetch the whip at once!"

The boy scrambled to his feet and walked out the door, followed by the threatening walking stick.

"Fetch the whip and wait for me at the stable house, you hear?"

But the only thing the boy heard was his heart beating in his throat, and fear urging him to flee as fast as he could. Hanging with be preferable to be chained and whipped like the slaves he had heard about.

Unfortunately for him, Mister Howlett had expected such a reaction and had previously warned his men to keep watch for a run away boy. When the stable foreman saw the ragged kid bolt blindly past the stable house and into the back garden, he mounted a horse he had readied before-hand and rode after him. Soon he found the scared boy, running towards the back wall of the garden, and quickly cut him off.

"That's far enough, you." He called out, but the boy wasn't giving up. It was all or nothing, now, and he scrambled desperately away from the stomping horse. "Darn, ya blasted fool…"

Naturally, the horse caught up with him without effort and the man kicked him in the back, making him fall. Then, before he could piece his wits together, the man had dismounted and grabbed him by the neck.

"Ya'll soon find out it ain't good fer yer health t'upset Mister Howlett, kid. Or me. Now get movin'!" There was a bit of fight in his body yet, fuelled by fear, but it cooled down the moment the man let go of him to bring down his horse whip over his back. "Ain't I jus' tell ya ta behave? Ya gonna do as ya're told now, or do I have ta flog some sense inta that dumb brain o' yers, huh?"

The boy was down on his knees, again, his hands once more protecting his head while he whined an apology. The stable foreman eased somewhat and coaxed him into getting up and returning quietly. Giving up, he finally obeyed. His legs were shaking somewhat, at the thought of Mister Howlett and the whip, and he was still thinking of a way to escape, but hope had fled and abandoned him to his fate.

Just as he had feared, Mister Howlett was waiting at the stable house, whip in hand. He didn't seem terribly angry, but the whip, with its five leather straps dangling freely, was more terrible than the most fearful monster. The boy hung his head in shamed terror.

"He's a feisty one, sir. What would ya have me do with 'im?"

"Place him by the fence that he may hold on to it."

The boy's limbs had gone numb and his hands trembled as the man placed them on the fence board. Tears burnt his eyes when he looked up at the man who had hunted him on horseback, silently begging for mercy.

"I warned ya," he rebuked, his dark eyes trampling down the boy's plea." Now, ya just hold on ta the fence an' take yer punishment like a man, ya hear? Don't make this any worse."

"I'll do the first five myself, Alcott." He heard Mister Howlett say in his regular brisk voice; and then he heard him clear his throat. "I'll be kind to you, boy, since that insolent behaviour towards me was your first offence, so you shall take only five lashes for it. However, you have since disobeyed my orders and, to make the matter worse, tried to run away. Therefore you shall take ten additional lashes for each of those offences."

There was a terrifying silence in which the boy clung to the boards until his fingernails hurt. As helpless as he was, at the moment, his bladder was rebelling and he feared an unbearable humiliation on top of the unimaginable pain he was about to receive. Tears threatened to fall as he thought of his Pa. He wouldn't have allowed this. He would have sooner blown Mister Howlett's head away, like he'd done for Master John, than let the old man lay a finger that it may be on him.

"Now, boy… can you do that sum and tell me the exact number of lashes you will take in the next minutes?" The question barely sank within his spirit and he gasped, outstretched arms trembling as he waited hopelessly for a miracle. "Five for your first offence, and ten for each of the two following ones. How much is that, boy?"

He stuttered, unable to think, and suddenly he felt a searing pain strike over his back. His body stretched and arched of its own volition; then the strength of his arms broke down and his chest hit the wooden fence, where it rested in shocked expectation.

"I suggest you start counting," Mister Howlett's cold voice ordered after waiting for his yelp to die into a whine. "If your father was able to teach you as much."

Pa… He would never have allowed this. He would have sav…

"I said COUNT!"

The boy screamed when the second lash landed, and instead of heeding his orders, he preferred to follow his instincts and tried to spring out of harm's way. The third lash hit him more violently, hugging his right arm and flank. He threw himself down and covered his head, but Mister Howlett's enraged voice was terrifyingly clear when he snapped for Alcott to flog the mindless dog until he knew right from wrong.

The boy whimpered hopeless apologies as the man got in position. When a new lash cut through his shirt and skin, his bladder broke free and he didn't even notice it, because another one was coming, and another and another, until his entire body was a ablaze and he couldn't hear anything but his own hoarse voice screaming.

--------------------------------------------

The first thing the boy heard when he regained consciousness was a strange moaning sound he couldn't quite locate. It didn't bother him much, though, since his back was hurting so pitifully he thought he had died and gone to the Hell of eternal punishment he had been threatened with when he had been caught playing in the cemetery with other kids, down in the village.

"Ya're awake, huh?"

He realised the moaning sound was coming from his own throat when he tried to spoke. He coughed and his back hurt even more.

"Here, have some water, boy." It tasted cool and heavenly, and he drank avidly. He then opened his eyes and noticed he was lying down on a heap of straw; the man from before was helping him keep his head up as he drank. "There, now, that's enough. Next time ya decide t'act smart, kid, think it over very carefully. Mister Howlett let ya out easy, this one time; he won't do it again."

"Easy? Ya call this easy?" He couldn't help groan, as his eyes filled with tears. Pa had never hurt him so; not even all the village boys together had ever hurt him anywhere as bad.

The stranger looked at him and shook his head.

"Mind yer manners, boy. Ya should'ave taken five and thirty lashes, after that last deed o' yers. Awake or not. But he told me ta stop when ya lost consciousness, so ya only took seventeen." The boy forgot his self-pity at the idea that the next ten or so lashes would have certainly killed him. And yet, he could still feel the grievance and resentment raging within. "Ya never been whipped before, huh?"

The boy tried to get up but the pain was too strong and he gave it up. He shook his head. Once, he remembered, he had almost been canned by the local police. He and a few other boys had gone out to the cemetery for a dare, and he had half-dug up a recent grave. Peter Jones had been digging up an old one when the priest had shown up. He called the law, and all the offending boys got canned in the public square. He had seen the results, afterwards: their rear-ends striped in red, purple and black. Some had even bled and hadn't been able to sit for some days. But Pa had stood up against all of them.

"I'll blast ya all ta Hell, ya lay a finger on my boy," he still remembered his enraged voice, seconded by the shotgun. Sure, Pa had given him the belt until he thought he was going to die; but he hadn't been canned down in the village, with everyone watching.

"My Pa used ta hit me with a belt," he finally croaked, remembering that one thrashing. "The buckle was the worse, but it was nuthin' like this…"

"Yeah, well," the man grinned, "ya be a good boy, and I guarantee ya won't have ta get used ta it. Mister Howlett's a fair man an' doesn't go about whippin' folks. He was just teaching ya a lesson, back there."

"A lesson?"

The man laughed a hateful "ya ain't that very bright, are ya", but although he was too hurt to as much as scowl, the mutiny within was organising its ranks.

"Obey Mister Howlett in everything, and ya ain't ever gonna be whipped like that again. That's the main lesson. But here in between us, if ya gonna aggravate the man, make sure it's one 'offence' at a time. Ya don't wanna pile 'em up again, like ya did today. Ya understand what I'm sayin'?"

"He can't do that ta me." He frowned threateningly at the seasoned man in front of him, his mutiny unable of providing more assertive actions. "Whippin' like that's fer slaves. I ain't no slave, and I ain't gonna be one, either!"

The man got up and grabbed him by the collar, making him yell and beg for mercy when the shredded shirt scrapped against his bleeding back.

"I have warned ya ta mind yer tongue, ya lil' piece o' trash." The man hissed fearsomely, and the boy's rebellious streak shrunk into temporary oblivion. "Ya was a slave, ya wouldn't have had thirty lashes, ya'd have had fifty! Ya was a blasted lil' slave, ya wouldn't have had the boy's cat, ya'd have this!"

He threw the boy on the heap of hay, where he vainly searched for a less painful position. But he hadn't yet eased the throbbing pain that had been awakened when another whip was thrown down over his head. It had nine long leather straps and each ended in a fearsome knot.

"That, my boy, is what slaves got from Mister Howlett." The other growled from above. "That an' sometimes with metal clamps tied ta the end. Ya think they had good food and proper clothes? Like yer gonna have, if ya ever learn yer place?"

"I'm sorry…" It was a whisper which escaped unconsciously through clenched teeth.

"Yer sorry, indeed!" The man spit to the side and picked up the whip. "Ya'll be sorry if ya don't start obeyin'. An' the next time ya think o' runnin' off, or as much as escapin' a punishment, ya just remember this: I've worked fer Mister Howlett fer thirty goddamn years, and he's a fair enough master who makes sure his every worker's got 'nuff food and clothes on 'im. But ya rub 'im the wrong way, boy, and ya'll see if ya won't get yer fifty lashes down on yer back; and 'em wounds rubbed over wi' salt, too. Then ya'll know just what's like ta suffer like 'em slaves used ta. Ya understand?"

The boy swallowed hard, fighting to keep hot tears of fear, pain and frustration from streaming down, and nodded feebly.

"That's better." The boy closed his eyes for a moment of silence, while the man wandered away for a few seconds, probably to put away the cat o' nine tails. When the heavy steps returned, though, the man's voiced had lost some of its edge. "All right, then. Now that ye's straightened ta rights, ya open yer ears and start actin' like a man, ya hear? I'm the stables foreman, and the name's Mister Alcott fer you. That'll be Mister Alcott, SIR, too. Ya gonna be helpin' me out fer a few weeks, while Mister Howlett decides what trade ya gonna follow. Ya knows yer way 'round horses?" He nodded again. "How's that?"

"Huh… Yes, sir?"

"Good." The man grinned approvingly, showing off his yellow teeth. The boy figured he was probably older than his Pa was. Had been. "What's yer name, then?"

He froze. His name? He let his head drop on the straw.

"Dog." He whispered dejectedly, but looked up immediately when he heard the man laugh.

"No, ya dumb boy. Just 'cause Mister Howlett called ya dog, back there, it don't mean he's gonna be changin' yer name t'that. Darn, ya can't even change a person's name unless it's yer slave or somethin', ya stupid kid." And he laughed harder, much to the boy's embarrassment, who wiggled and then whimpered when his wounds complained of the movement. "Sit up, and start actin' like a man, already. Now, what did yer parents call ya, huh?"

"My parents?"

He was lost for a moment, as a vague memory of a blond woman repeated his name like a prayer. No, he couldn't tell anyone that name. And then, just like that, it dawned on him that Pa had given him a name he could use. At least now, he could.

"Logan, sir. My name's Logan."

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Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	5. 1910, March

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site uncannyxmen. net has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**5. 1910, March**

Logan leaned on the tree with his right shoulder, feeling its rugged bark bite into his skin. He watched the village as the reddened sky lost its bright colours. Day light was fading away while everywhere little twinkling candle lights got hold of windows. The day warmth accompanied the disappearing golden day light, and soon the young man was putting on his flannel shirt.

The fabric rubbed against his wounded back and he winced, slowing down his movement. Finally, he sat down on the ground and once more leaned on the tree; but this time he turned his back against the village.

He hadn't wanted to return. Folks knew him, there. No, not him, he reminded himself; they knew Dog. They knew the dark haired, flimsy boy everyone called Dog. But as far as he was concerned, Dog was dead and buried. Hell, he even looked completely different! He was tall, now; more so than any other boy his age or older. He wasn't flimsy anymore, either, because Mister Howlett had him working hard from sunrise to sunset. And even his hair had changed; it wasn't dark anymore, but a blondish brown. Dog was gone. He was Logan, now.

The problem was that those stupid village folks kept calling him Dog, and he wouldn't have that. He couldn't care less if Mister Howlett was going to have a fit and whip him to death: he wasn't putting up with any provocation from his old 'pack pals'. Not ever again.

Logan stiffened his muscles, reawakening the pain in his back, as his blood once more started boiling in anger. Mister Howlett complained about that often… said he had a dangerous temper. A rabid dog. That's what he'd called him so many times. He still remembered the old man's words. They were as much etched into his mind as his scars were onto his face:

"Dog Logan. A fitting name, indeed." And his voice had been harsh and strong and full of unquestionable authority. "You are to understand one thing and one thing only: you are not a stray dog anymore. You're MY dog. You do no one's bidding but mine, and you do everything exactly as I say the moment I tell you to. Can you understand this much, boy?"

Even his eyes burned with the strength of the rage coursing through his veins. He understood. He understood so well.

Logan brought his knees to his chest and embraced his legs. He hated this place. He hated all the memories it brought up… He closed his eyes, remembering Rose. Pretty red-head Rose. Nice, smiling, gentle, his. And little Master James. So sickly, so full of smiles and enthusiasm… so ready to step on him, rat him out and rob him of everything.

He clenched his knees until blood stopped flowing. Why had they abandoned him? Why? He could have been hung because of them. And he hadn't done anything wrong! It had been his Pa who had done all the killing. And it had all been because James had ratted him out, had… Dammit! He had saved the blasted kid from drowning! And what did he do? What?! And why had Rose abandoned him like that… His scar hurt. Logan put his hand over his face and almost fell the thick hot blood again, and the searing pain. He almost heard that female voice, which he had hoped against hope was Rose's.

He shook his head, trying to will the memory away, but the images unfolded before his eyes. Mistress Elizabeth's white nightdress blurry amidst the darkness and the pain. Her voice… he vaguely remembered it calling his Pa's name. Her voice so calm and soothing. And then, as his eyesight fought to focus, Mistress Elizabeth's shape had become clearer. And just in time, too, to see her head…

Logan stared into the darkness in front of him. Eventually, he got tired of sitting there and got up. He wandered about aimlessly. The woods hadn't changed much in the year and a half he'd been away with Mister Howlett. Unwittingly, his feet discovered an old abandoned path through the woods and he followed it.

When the wood died away into open fields, he continued on. The Howlett Estate loomed above him, perched at the top of the hill. He kept going until an old fence stopped him. It was partially rotted and some parts had nothing but an unsteady post sticking sideways out of the ground. Logan followed the fence. Soon it came before him.

It was falling apart. Door and windows looked like wounds in a rotting body, allowing vultures to rip its guts away. He peeked into the rickety cabin and snorted. It was all gone. Table, chair, stove… everything. He sat down on the floor and stared at the wall against which a table used to stand. Pa used to sit behind it, looking at a dark haired woman's photo and getting angry. He sighed. There had been a time, just before James ruined everything, when Pa would sometimes take him to the bar, at night. He would drink alongside him and see how no one dared lift a finger against his Pa, no matter how much he drank or what he said.

Logan's face twitched in a sad smile that died a newborn. His Pa had always been there for him. He was the only person he remembered who had never called him dog. Logan closed his fists hard. Pa had taught him well. How many times had he told him to stay away from James and Rose and all those blasted fools who lived in the house? How many? But he had been too stupid to believe him until it was too late.

He didn't like it, when Mister Howlett said bad things about his Pa. Nevertheless, he didn't complain about it anymore, even if he couldn't keep his face from showing his anger. Mister Howlett never allowed for any lip, and would immediately fetch the rod. Or, worse yet, the whip.

"A little bleeding will cool your head," Mister Howlett often said. "And we'll see if I can't rid you of your blood's tendencies."

Logan had learnt quickly to hold his tongue and to obey promptly. That was one thing he did like about Mister Howlett: he always knew exactly what brought the rod or the whip out on him. Like not keeping his temper in check. Unfortunately his blood ran too hot for the memory of the whip to cool; only the real thing worked. Which had been why, on arriving to the village three days before and meeting his old pal Eddie Malcolm, he had sealed his fate. Logan couldn't help grin. And what was it to him, to be whipped until he was crying on his knees, if he knew the blasted Malcolm would take months to heal his broken leg. Hell, he might even become lame. He chuckled at the idea.

Lying down on the floor, Logan curled into a nice little ball as he used to do when he lived with his Pa. He had a decent bed now, since Mister Howlett had decided to keep him in his service. He also had good clothes and received as much food as he wanted, for as long as he behaved and did exactly as he was told.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, to no avail.

-----------------------------------

Sunrise found Logan washing himself at the water pump near the stables of the abandoned Howlett Estate. Mister Howlett insisted that he was always cleaned and well groomed and he knew better than to be caught at fault. Even if the old man was nowhere around, he was doing his bidding, and that meant keeping up and above all expectations. Logan took out a small black cover book and a pencil.

The mourning had been called off and the lands were to be put to good use, once again. But since the property had been left completely deserted and unkept, it was necessary to organise a survey and identify all that required fixing. The house was to be left untouched, just like the gardens, but corn fields, orchards and grazing fields for the horses were to be brought back to life.

Logan sat down and opened the book. He had already written all that was amiss in the stables as well as what had caught his eyes as being in good state, which wasn't much. The apple tree orchard was still in very good condition, although he thought folks from the village were probably taking advantage of the unguarded fruit.

He went over his careful scribbling – Mister Howlett didn't like sloppy work, and seemed to be easily ticked off by the uncertainty of his recently learnt ability to read and write – and once more wondered if he should add his suspicion. Scratching his head, he made his decision. He sharpened the tip of the pencil with his pen-knife and carefully wrote: "vilage folks rob apels". He stared at it for a while and then put down the final period. Mister Howlett was very picky with those little things. He always talked about the importance of the little details. He went back to the first page where Mister Howlett had written the schedule for his duties. Today, he was to check the corn fields. The next three days, he'd look for signs of lumbering and hunting in the woods that belonged to the Estate.

Logan's stomach grumbled loudly. He had finished off his stock of dried meat and beans the day before and was now faced with the need to go down to the village and get some more at the general store, before getting to work. He pocketed the book and the pencil and started down the hill half-unwillingly, heading for the woods which he had always used as a short-cut, preferring it to the winding road that avoided the thick tree patch. However, the more he walked, the less willingly he was to go to the place. He didn't want to be whipped again, when Mister Howlett returned.

He recalled the expression on everyone's face that first day when the old man had arrived to the local Mounted Police post. He had talked with the Mounties there for a long time, and Logan had had time to start his survey by the village itself. Just like Mister Howlett had instructed him to. But everywhere, folks either threw horrified glances at him or looked away. It made his blood boil, to know his face – scarred because of James – could cause such a response.

He had tried to recognize the folks he knew from his childhood, and lo and behold, there had been pretty Laura Olson. She had often giggled on account of his taunting, just a year and a half before that; but now she had turned her head away, her gloved hand covering her mouth. He had seen Sam O'Leary, his curly red locks shorter but his face still distorted by the same old freckles, working at the smith's. The smith, Mr Tohr, had been yelling at him over something, and the young man had been too busy to see him, but he knew what his reaction would have been.

And he had met Ethel. She had once been the favourite play mate of every boy in and near the village. She had grown up a tomboy at her drunken father's mill, a mile or so away from the village, and had always played with the boys that left the village to play at their ease. But as boys and girl had grown, so had their games. Ethel was a green eyed blonde who tied her skirts up, the hem barely reaching down to her tempting knees, and extracted gifts from the boys who wanted to go swimming in the river with her. And it was widely known that the girl who ran faster than most boys and could punch like the best always got rid of both outer and inner clothes, when she went swimming.

Ethel had been coming out of the general store, when Logan had seen her. She was wearing a simple dress, and it had been strange to see her with her legs covered and her shirt buttoned all the way up to her neck. He had thought she would welcome him with a smile. He remembered her naughty smile very well. Logan hadn't played with the girl that very much, but they had had chance encounters somewhat regularly. She had told him, three summers ago, that he was the only boy she had ever allowed to swim with her in the river without giving her a present of some sort. He had laughed at her, and told her it was because he was usually already swimming when she came about, but she hadn't liked it and they had ended up wrestling a bit in and out of the water.

They had met more often after that.

That had been why, when he had seen Ethel, he had walked up to her and greeted her. But the stupid girl had gasped and dropped her basket; and then she had stuttered his name like he was some kind of monster and hurried away. And then Malcolm had sneaked up on him, asking him if he had taken up scaring girlies away with his freak face, instead of stealing their kisses.

And that had been it. Before he had known it, the Mounties had got a hold of him, and Mister Howlett had ordered him in the coach. Once they had arrived at the Howlett Estate, he had whipped his orders into Logan's head: no more fights, no more confrontations, no more not even a scowl towards anyone. For the week that he'd stay there, surveying the property, he was to behave himself as gentleman-like as his station could manage.

Logan's stomach grumbled again, interrupting his line of thought but not being able to cool his anger. He was going to get into another fight in the village. There were at least five or six other boys who had once been part of the 'pack', and he had only met one, yet. And even if he just met the everyday folks. His chest seemed to have expanded, hurting him as it threatened to burst at the thought of the men sneering at him, the women avoiding looking at him, the girls who used to batter their eyelashes and sigh cringing at his sight… Lord! He wanted nothing but to bust their faces! Send them all to Hell…

He crouched, breathing hard in an attempt to ease the pressure building inside him. His eyes burned and stung and he punched the ground with his closed fists.

James.

It was all James's fault.

But he'd have his revenge, one day. On James and on Rose, the bitch, who had rather run off with the thieving Master James than stay with him. Logan punched the ground again and again until he fancied his vision was getting reddish. He closed his eyes hard and stood perfectly still, hardly breathing. His mind joined several faces from the village to the image of James and Rose. Malcolm had already got his due, or part of it. But the others… Ethel Smith, Sam O'Leary, Will and Nate Coxcomb, Peter Jones, Allan Kendal, Harold Cobbett … even Mr Lewis, the store owner, who had poked fun at him every week he went down to fetch stuff for the Estate. They all thought they could keep on laughing at him. They'd see. One day, he would… he would…

He opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, unsure of what he was going to do to all of them, one day; but being very sure it was going to be something as terrible as they deserved. Then, all of a sudden, his brown eyes spotted it. He didn't make sense of it right away, but then the animal twitched its ears and its entire profile became suddenly obvious. Logan remained completely quiet. It was a small rabbit, probably a few weeks old. He felt his empty stomach readying itself to complain again, but willed it to be quiet.

Slowly… very, very slowly… he reached for his penknife and aimed. In one fluid movement, he threw the knife and almost immediately the animal sprinted away. Fortunately for the young man, he hadn't aimed well enough and the animal's sprint got it precisely in harms way. As the knife rotated in the air, it hit the animal's head with the handle, knocking it off its feet. Not wasting a moment, Logan quickly reached for the animal, which was getting up dazedly, and grabbed it by a hind leg. The rabbit screeched and he jerked it; but the animal continued screeching so he hit it on the head, thus breaking its neck and silencing the creature.

For a moment, he felt pride at his catch. Then, as he realised he didn't have to go to the village yet, relieve took him over; almost immediately, though, relieve poked the embers of his anger and he was once more enraged. They'd see, all of them, he swore over and over again. They will see.

Almost growling, he started back to the stables, but then he heard a faded clack and froze. He strained his ears and heard a few more distant sounds. Could someone from the village be out hunting in the property? He wondered who it could be, pleased that he would be able to give Mister Howlett at least a name. He'd be volunteering for placing that one guy in its rightful place, he sure would. Logan sneered, imagining the near future, and hoped it was someone from the old pack.

When he got as close as to hear human voices and smell their fireplace, he took off his shoes and advanced very quietly through the trees, careful to remain hidden. He could see two men drinking from metal cups… Indians. They were talking gibberish, and Logan realised it must be their Indian language. He stood still watching them; their foreign clothes, their long black hair in braided pony-tails, their riffles and traps, and the well wrapped pack, which he figured must be pelts. He was unsure of what to do. The two would certainly kill him if they thought him a threat. Perhaps he should back away as quietly as he had approached and get the Mounties. That was what they were there for, to keep the place in order.

"You move silent. For white man."

Logan had just started moving, and froze at the strong accented voice. He looked back. The two Indians continued drinking as if they had never said anything. He hesitated, but then he came forward and stood in plain sight, although not approaching the fire. He stood for only a second, but it felt like hours to him. He glanced from the top of his height to the flimsy looking men. One of them, an old looking fellow, looked him up and down, shortly, and said something to his companion, who nodded sullenly.

"He say you tall like man, but you just boy." The younger Indian finally looked at Logan, who was starting to get irritated. "You walk quiet like Indian boy, too."

Logan almost talked back, but Mister Howlett had trained him well and he refrained himself. Not even his anger could overlook the rifles, as well as the knives he could now see on the men. Still, when the old man started on his gibberish again, he closed his fists.

"What's he sayin'?" He demanded roughly.

They both stopped and gazed at him for a tense moment.

"He say you catch rabbit with hand. You good hunter, one day." Logan stared at the man, blinking in awe at the accurate guess. "Sit. Cook rabbit in fire."

"Ah… I… Thanks." He approached the fire with uncharacteristic shyness, his curiosity overcoming his doubts about his company. "Ah… How… How d'ya know I caught it by hand?"

The old Indian lifted a brow and the other translated. Then he pointed at the animal.

"No gun wounds. No knife wounds. No trap wounds. But leg twisted. You catch it by leg and you break it. Then you break neck."

He once more stared at the man, amazed at his sagacity. Then, as the Indian focused on his drink, he skinned the rabbit and put it near the fire, roasting it. He kept his eyes on his breakfast, revolving in his mind the logic behind the Indian's guess. When he was ready to start eating, though, he noticed the old Indian was staring openly at his face scars. His blood boiled immediately. The old man started talking gibberish to him, but Logan only got more upset, clenching his fists.

"He ask what animal do that." The younger Indian translated.

"It's none o' yer business!" Logan yelled, continuing without thinking. "And it wasn't no animal! It was a stupid, good-fer-nuthin' thief."

The Indian frowned and asked how.

Logan didn't know.

All he knew was that Rose had pushed him and then James had hit him with something. He had always figured the other boy had been carrying a knife with him, probably even the pen-knife he himself had given James, a long time ago; because he didn't have one and a self-respecting boy would never go about without a pen-knife. That suspicion hurt Logan even deeper. And even if it didn't explain the three independent cuts, which had all been done in one single swipe, he believed it to be the truth. He simply didn't know what else could have happened.

Logan got up, his breakfast already forgotten, and threatened the Indians with the Canadian Mounted Police. They were hunting in private grounds, he hissed, and Mister Howlett would have them hung for it. The English speaking Indian appeared to take his warnings seriously, and his hand moved surreptitiously towards his rifle, his black eyes hardening. Logan shut up for a moment and the two remained like that: the slim dark haired man measuring the blond's height and muscle, and the blond measuring the distance that separated the dark skinned hand from the gun… guessing what other powers besides sagacity the Indian could possess.

When the old man called him, Logan didn't dare look. He seemed to feel that to take his eyes off that hand, mere inches away from the rifle, was akin to invite the man to shoot him. But when the voice insisted two more times, he glanced quickly. The Indian had pulled his shirt up, revealing deep slashes on his side.

"Cougar," the young Indian said, although his hand had not moved away from the gun. "He sleep when cougar come. Cuts thin because cougar claws very sharp. Very close, too. Small, young cougar."

Logan frowned not sure he understood. The old man started talking to him, showing him three fingers and hovering them over his face. The younger Indian translated as the other spoke, saying that Logan's scars were deep and wide. That meant they didn't have many years, and had been done by neither blade nor sharp cat claws. They were deep, he repeated. No animal could indent only three deep cuts; there would always be four or five, depending on the creature.

"No, it was a knife." Logan's curiosity had once more overcome his anger, but his voice mirrored his exasperation perfectly. He hesitated a moment, but he was sure it had to have been a knife, so he explained what had happened. "James punched me in the face… He must have had a hidden knife and he punched me with it."

The younger Indian frowned and asked if it had been only one punch. When Logan confirmed it he translated what he had heard. The old man shook his head solemnly. He pulled out a knife and pretended to punch the ground. It produced one slash. Then he gave two more punches.

"See," the Indian said, "three punches, three cuts. Cuts not side in side. Your cuts all side in side. One punch, three cuts… no knife."

Logan watched as the older Indian once more pretended to punch the ground, this time trying to hold two knives. One of them skidded and the two gashes were not parallel, just like the other three hadn't been. The old man shook his head again. He held up three hooked fingers to his own face and scratched it lightly. He spoke to Logan, stressing each foreign sound.

"Claws," the translator explained. "Man punch you? Then man have claws."

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Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	6. 1912, March

**Disclaimer**: All characters belong to Marvel, to the exception of the blonde lady and most village folks.

**Note**: This story is based off the events and characters presented in Wolverine: Origin.

If you have not read the mini-series detailing the true origins of Wolverine, I suggest you do so before reading this story. The wonderful site uncannyxmen. net has got the summaries. Just check the menu for 'Issue Information', then 'Issue Summaries'. Scroll down the alphabetical list until you find 'Origin #1 - 6' and enjoy the reading.

**The Underdog**

**6. 1912, March**

The sky was speckled with bright little stars, sparkling as coldly as the air felt, down on the Earth. Logan looked up and almost smiled when the moment of recognition hit him. He knew those stars. He saw them up in the sky almost every night that wasn't clouded. True, they were constantly moving around the sky through the night, and also from season to season. But he remembered that that group of stars, twinkling over there, above that birch out in the field, used to be swallowed by the sun before actually dropping out of sight, the year before, just after the snow had finished melting.

And the snow had just finished melting, this year. 'One hour more, maybe,' he thought and returned to his work even more energetically.

He'd be on time, though. He smiled as the sweat trickled down his forehead. It had been fortunate that he had caught the wolf which had wandered about the Estate throughout the winter early at night. Of course, it had helped that Logan had spent that same winter following its tracks and learning its tricks and vices. He was so pleased with his hunt, he didn't even thought of the previous nights, when he had spent hours stalking the animal in vain. Tonight, however, he had risked it all and let some of the mares with foals to stay the night out. The wolf had bitten the bait, and now there it was: a beautiful grey furred hide all cleaned and stretched to dry.

Logan wiped his sweating forehead with the arm and decided it was time to return. He looked back at the stars. They had already disappeared behind the tree, but the horizon was still dark. No, he looked more attentively. There was already a glimmer of dark blue threatening to overcome the distant line of the horizon. There wasn't much time.

He had already buried the animal body, to avoid attracting unwanted creatures, so he just raced through the trail, avoiding the obstacles he already knew by heart.

The sun hadn't lit the horizon yet, when Logan entered his little cabin next to the stables. He sat down on the straw mattress, his weight making the small wooden bed creak, and untied the boots he himself had made out of animal hides, the summer before. He laid back on the mattress with a happy sigh, his short hair grazing the wall while the feet dangled uncomfortably on the other end.

Outside some birds started chirping. An industrious sigh helped him getting up. He left the house wearing only the old trousers he wore when he went out into the woods, and settled down to washing himself at the water pump. Then he took off the trousers, which he had already rubbed energetically with soap to rid them of the wolf blood, and rinsed them before doing the same for his hair. He felt about his face to ascertain whether he'd need shaving that day.

He had shaved his chin and moustache only the day before, so his face was still pretty presentable. His sideburns felt a bit overgrown, though. He was sorry Mister Howlett wanted him so thoroughly shaved. He looked younger, like that, and he longed to let his sideburns grow to a manly size. Groaning at the contrariety, he went in and put the shaving blade to work. Then he put on his proper clothes, which he kept always clean and presentable.

He left the cabin in time to see the sun breeching the tree cover. He looked at it for a second and smiled. Sideburns aside, life sure was good.

By the time Logan entered the kitchen to have his breakfast; every other worker was gone and working, leaving Mrs Anselen, the cook, cleaning after them. So he grabbed his plate, which Mrs Anselen was always careful to fill to the brim the moment she heard him approaching, and sat quietly on a corner. Unlike the other workers, greedy for food before getting any work done, Logan had already done his first chore: checking that each and every horse was accounted for. He had a natural ability to distinguish and keep track of each animal, a skill he not only cherished but enjoyed, too. And because he knew the animals, he easily spotted the ones which might not be behaving naturally and fixed whatever was ailing them.

However, before leaving the stables, he had to wait for the arrival of the two boys who tended to the horses, under the guidance of the stable foreman. The kids usually got there an hour late, although always before the foreman, and he was supposed to give them their daily smacking for their lateness. He never smacked them hard, though, just a few bare handed slaps without ever as much as threatening them with the rod or the leather strap. As it was, the boys never feared arriving late, which for Logan meant having a peaceful morning start and, just as importantly, having the kitchen all for himself. That is, for himself and the old crow who played the cook.

He looked at the watch which the old man insisted to keep in the kitchen, so that the workers would have no excuse for starting their work late. It was almost eight in the morning. He went outside to wash his mouth, hands and face, and make sure both him and his clothes were thoroughly clean and presentable. He scraped any remnants of mud off his boots before re-entering and going directly for Mister Howlett's study.

He knocked twice and waited for the old man to give him leave to enter. When he did enter, the first thing he noticed was the man's deep frown and decided, glimpsing a paper that looked like a letter, that he must have received upsetting news from the East.

"Sir, shall I go 'bout my regular duties, or is there somethin' ya…" He interrupted himself to clear his throat. Mister Howlett didn't like him to 'distort the language', as he called it, and he always strived to speak properly in front of him. "Excuse me, sir. I meant, is there something you wish me to do?"

The old man's blue eyes flashed his anger for a quiet, intense moment, and then he sat back. "Sit."

Logan hesitated and looked about himself. He had never been told to sit in that room and he wasn't sure which chair he should choose. In the mean time, Mister Howlett grabbed his walking stick and limped away from the imposing desk. He approached a stately looking armchair, its back turned to a fireplace, above which stood the coat of arms of the Howlett family. He leaned heavily on the armchair with a tired sigh.

He was getting old, Logan mused. His strength was gone, his sight weakened, and his legs every day more crippled by old age. How much longer would he still cling to life? Logan didn't like thinking about it. There was too much uncertainty, to which he was not accustomed.

"What are you doing, you fool, standing there? Did I not tell you to sit?" He let himself settle on the armchair, and Logan chose a lower one, to its left. "Alcott has made a fool of himself. And worse yet, of me."

Howlett's walking stick hit the floor sharply, his eyes unfocused. Logan breathed in forcefully. He knew this would happen, he knew it! That darned day, two years ago, when Mister Howlett had told him he was selling his city house and moving into Master John's Estate, leaving Alcott in charge of the coal mines, he had asked the old man if it was a wise decision. He had got twenty lashes for that indiscretion, implying that his master didn't know what he was doing. But he had been right. Even if he was still a dumb kid, back then, he had been right.

"What has happened, sir? And what can I do for you?"

Logan had never understood why Mister Howlett had wanted to return. Personally, he hated the place. Even if he took advantage of the deep woods in and around the Estate, which didn't exist near the city house; even if he had the chance to meet with passing Indians with whom he often learnt valuable skills; even if there were less people around to gasp at his ruined face. He still hated the place. He hated all the memories he couldn't erase. He hated every rock, tree, brook, house or field where he had been with…

He just hated it! Everything!

"He was incapable of keeping the men in check." Logan snapped out of his reverie. "He has written to inform me that the men who work on the mine have organised themselves in a union and are threatening to strike if their demands are not met."

"To strike, sir? They intend to attack you?"

Mister Howlett looked at Logan and hissed exasperatedly. Logan lowered his head, ready for the scolding that a sigh prevented from beginning. He looked up, surprised but worried with the sighing that was becoming each season more frequent.

"Ah… I forget your lack of understanding." He shook his head, disheartened, and Logan bit his lip, hating to be remembered of his station in such a fashion. "No, they don't intend to attack me. Not physically, at least. A strike is when the working men refuse to work until their masters… or bosses, as they now call it, accept to submit."

Logan frowned, striving to think fast and accurately.

"What are their demands, sir?"

"To take over the authority and rule the world." He shrugged, despise darkening his words. "What else would those base fools ask for?"

Mister Howlett's answer didn't make much sense, so he guessed the man didn't mean it literally. He still couldn't fathom what the miners might want, though. Work less hours? No… surely it would have something to do with ruling. Did they intend to take over the management of the coal mines? That sounded more like it. Nevertheless, he hesitated in voicing his ideas, since he wasn't sure of them.

"When I was a young man," Logan wiggled uncomfortably as Mister Howlett's blue eyes stared past him almost tenderly. "I left Great Britain to make my fortune. Those were tough times… I enlisted in the navy and had the boy's cat open my eyes to the harsh truth of life. But I opened them, boy. I watched how the other boys were incapable of doing the same, and how they grew to taste the cat of nine tails. I did not once face such punishment from the upper hands, after my first year in the service. My prompt ability to learn and rise above the rest of the enlisted scum allowed me the good fortune of making the right acquaintances. Therefore, when I decided to abandon life at sea, which did not appeal to me even though I could have reached the higher positions, I was directed to certain gentlemen who required overseers for their estates, in the Southern States of our neighbour country, the United States of America."

Logan frowned in his effort to accompany the tale, remembering old mid-wives tales of a king George and his southern kingdom of slaves.

"The first months as an overseer at a cotton plantation were quite instructive, and I learnt quickly. The niggers, they've got to call themselves blacks, these days, I've heard. But niggers, slaves or freemen, they were, and are, the same as these base-born whites I have working for me." His eyes darkened and locked onto Logan's. "You listen closely, now, Logan, because your understanding has not been spurred and trained through your entire childhood, and therefore it is as limited as the niggers'. And as the understanding of most whites who flaunter themselves about, too. However, you have strived to rise above your blood and your limitations; you even strive to use a proper language when you report to me. Your hard work, my boy, has won my respect."

Logan straightened himself, pride bursting inside him.

"I shall explain to you, now, the one thing you must always remember when you deal with people of the lowest stations. Keep it always in your mind's eye, as difficult as you may find such task, and you shall certainly become the best foreman and trusted man your station has to offer."

"I will, sir." He pledged earnestly, his eyes burning with expectation at this secret knowledge which Mister Howlett saw fit to share with him, and him alone.

"Men like yourself, Logan, and those below you, including niggers, they can not think properly. They see only their present wishes and whims and can not suffer to look ahead in time, or look wider, to encompass their country and the world. But we, in the higher stations, we have had our eyes opened since the most tender age and we do see." Logan was frowning hard and opened his mouth as if to pose a question but stopped himself when Mister Howlett sighed, this time in annoyance. "Do not pester me with questions before I have finished. I shall soon produce examples that you may understand, boy. Be patient! Patience is of the utmost virtue in every man's life."

Patience, he repeated to himself, trying to curb the excitement that wanted to squirm in the cushioned seat. Patience. Just as when out stalking and hunting.

"Listen closely. The first stock of slaves I had under my supervision was a sore sight for the eyes indeed. I was instructed by their former overseer as to the best way of handling the lazy beasts and proceeded to apply his ideas. I flogged and punished those brutes until they neared death, and then one day a mere boy who had been recently bought dared to complain they could not work for want of food. I had him punished for his insolence, yet I submitted to his demand and enlarged the food given to each worker. The change was instantaneous, and they strived to work hard. Productivity doubled. Not two months had passed, though, when another slave dared new demand: the woman wouldn't suffer to have her children sold. Now tell me, what do you think should have been the most industrious way of facing this new demand?"

"Huh… flog her and allow her to keep her kids?"

"Oh, yes, and then they would demand that the whip be forgotten, that their clothes be of silk and velvet and that their men might demand white girls for themselves. Never! You must strive to open your eyes and see past the present, boy. Men at the bottom of society may be brutes, yet they are more cunning than the devil. You must see for yourself what the men require and follow your path without ever parting from the line of conduct that has been proved the most efficient."

Logan nodded his understanding and corrected his former answer, by stating the woman should be flogged and all her children sold to further the severity of her punishment.

"The best way to deal with the niggers, I discovered, was to allow them a fair portion of food, that they may have the strength to do their job judiciously. The whip and the rawhide, though, had to be used with care. Their master would not benefit if they were beaten so severely they must be excused from work, and yet too little and their natural inclination to arrogant pride and rebellion would surface and contaminate all slaves. It was a fine line, but I had the slaves walk through it with precision. Failing to fulfil all their chores, lateness, sloppiness and other light misdemeanours were met with few lashes but also confinement, less food and loss of other privileges. However, refusals to comply with their orders, ignoring curfews and laws forbidding meetings brought upon them punishments that could and would leave them incapable of working for a few days. Worst yet, attempts to run away or inappropriate behaviour towards white people were punished would such severity, the weaker of body would sometimes die or become bed-ridden for weeks."

"So, you see, my boy, I gave them what they needed, and punished their faults accordingly and severely. Not one of the slaves under my care ever ran off, and I had several begging to be bought and brought to work under my care. And do you know why?"

That was a no-brainer, and Logan answered automatically:

"Because you treated them fairly, sir," he understood it firsthand, since Mister Howlett, having beaten him much less than his Pa had, had quickly taught him obedience and industrious labour, something he had never learnt in his entire childhood. "They knew right from wrong, and knew how to avoid being punished by doing right only."

"Quite right. I'm glad to see I've been able to explain this matter to you so clearly. However, are you capable of seeing any problems when applying such wisdom to free men?"

Logan recalled rather quickly that first day when he had arrived to Mister Howlett's city house.

"Whips are for slaves and criminals, not free men."

"Indeed. And yet many free men are slaves themselves, boy. Remember that the lowest stations lack the capability of considering the future and their fellow creatures, and therefore they waste away their rightful wages with petty, childish whims that are no better than the niggers'. Do you recall the six months you laboured in the coal mines?" Logan nodded affirmatively. "What did you learn from the men around you?"

He frowned, not understanding what was being asked. He thought hard, as quickly as he was able to, and produced what he thought was an appropriate answer.

"I learnt to work fast and not complain. And not to whimper when I was tired or hurt. Or hungry or thirsty. I learnt to be a man. Sir."

"No, no; that is not what I asked of you. Did you look about you and tried to understand the workings behind those men's words and deeds? No, you did not. Why? Because you lack the natural curiosity towards your fellow men that characterises humanity. Therefore, you didn't stop to learn how they think and see the world. If you had, you would have discovered that they see only themselves and think only of themselves. And that, my boy, that natural weakness that keeps your station bound in chains is what you must strive to overcome."

"Yes, sir."

"Study their deeds, study their words. Understand their faulty and imperfect reasoning. Then you will know how to plot their demise." Like stalking, Logan compared; it's just like stalking an animal. "Now, what I have learnt about that unruly mass of men is as following: they will labour for their rightful wages, but instead of using those wages judiciously, they throw them away in the lowest fashion – women, alcohol, gambling… all is an excuse for their weak minds and will. They possess no control over themselves and their animal nature. And then, once their possessions are squandered, they turn against their masters and demand higher wages. They would sooner ruin master, country and world than admit their fault."

"Excuse me, sir. But if the men in the mines are as brute as them niggers, how have you kept them in line, sir?"

"Have I not just mentioned the virtue of patience? You shall never learn anything if you are too impatient to understand what is being told to you." Logan apologised humbly and Mister Howlett continued. "It is of the utmost importance you understand all that I am telling you. The success of the task I'm about to give you rests upon that understanding. Now, I have provided the miners with houses for themselves and their families and for which they must pay a monthly fee which is quite accessible to their possessions. However, their dissolute ways mean that they often fail to pay such fees. Instead of evicting them, though, I generously offer them credit, assuming they will be able to save some money from their next wages and pay off their debts."

"I apologise for interrupting again, sir, but… how can they save money to pay the debt, if they couldn't save it before?"

"Because, to warrant the credit that will avoid their eviction, they sign a contract with me. If they overdue the term for paying off their debt, they shall be punished with a set number of lashes, according with the nature, amount and lateness in payment."

"And they allow to be whipped?" Logan blinked in amazement, although he was sure that the law itself would support Mister Howlett's right to do it, because of the contract.

"I do not intend to foster resentment. After all, they may be criminals at heart, some at least, but they usually aren't so in deed. The aim of the punishment is to induce them to control their appetites that they do not squander their possessions. Moreover, they are given the choice between a rope cat of nine tails, which is not as severe as the leather version used by the law in prisons, and a birch rod. They usually choose the cat, and I assure you that, after the first taste, they promptly control their expenditures and quite soon pay off their entire debt."

"Then… what did Alcott do wrong?"

"Alcott!" He exclaimed with exasperation. "He has not kept a close watch over those criminals whose only intent is to uproot the foundations of order."

Logan looked at Mister Howlett with a puzzled expression and the old man's temper flared, the walking stick hitting the floor a couple times.

"Have I not already told you the men have organised a union, you fool? A union created by those cunning bums who pretend to be saving the world of the unruly low station, and whose sole intent is to destroy us all! Alcott should have kept his eyes open and acted quickly against them at the first sign of trouble. Now… now I am forced to take drastic measures." His cold blue eyes settled on Logan with the fierce intensity that usually preceded a flogging. "You shall return to the mines at once. Once there, you will keep your eyes and ears open until you single out the heads behind this organization."

Logan's brown eyes opened wide in realization of what was asked of him. Yet, one doubt burdened the simplicity of his task.

"You want me to hunt these men? But… what will I do to them, once I've…"

"Hold your tongue!" The old man's eyes flashed with resolve. "I have already plotted for you all that must be done. All it awaits is your action. Once you have singled out the ringleaders, you will study their words and deeds, and you will do your utmost to understand their reasoning. Should they have family, they shall be the key to their submission. Should they have no affiliations to woman or child, then you must be particularly weary, for those are the most dangerous kind of criminals."

"Yes, sir. I understand."

"You must do more than that. Go to the desk and fetch the brown envelope. I have collected there several procedures for you to follow, predicting the various situations you may... What are you waiting for? Open it and read it! Study those plans carefully and then burn the papers. Once you have determined what the exact nature of the union is, you will choose the method which best applies." Mister Howlett became silent and watched the young man as he stood, reading attentively. "Logan, look at me. One thing you must not forget: happen what may, no death, threat or injury can ever be traced back to this house."

"Sir!" He couldn't help the grin that twisted his lips as he remembered the words of the priest at a church mass, which he always attended to, accompanying Mister Howlett. "I will hunt those wolves and put an end to their evil work. They won't ever stray more miners of yours again. I promise you."

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